"Donata is an unlikely murderess. If a gentleman angered her, she would dress him down, in no uncertain terms, no matter who listened."
Grenville chuckled. "The lady has a sharp tongue and a sharper wit. I include her only because she was so near the room. And she told you she'd seen Mrs. Harper bend over Turner-Lady Breckenridge might have invented the story to make you more suspicious of Mrs. Harper. However, I admit that such a thing seems unlikely."
"We are looking for people who knew Turner well," I said.
"Indeed. Lord and Lady Gillis, then. They invited him."
"Lord Gillis says he knew Turner only in a vague way. The friend of a friend of his wife's, he told me."
"Yes, Lady Gillis is the connection there," Grenville said, writing. "You did not meet Lady Gillis. She can be a charming woman when she wishes, and she is very much younger than Lord Gillis. About Turner's age, I put her."
"Hmm," I said. "And Bartholomew puts her arguing with Lord Gillis earlier that day about someone she'd invited. I wonder who the object of this argument was."
"We can but ask her."
"Any other names?" I said.
"Leland Derwent," Grenville said. "He and Turner were at Oxford together. Leland often mentions this, usually in a tone of apology."
"I doubt Leland Derwent would commit murder." Leland was one of the most innocent young men I'd ever met. He looked upon life with the unworldly eyes of a puppy and had the enthusiasm to match. I dined regularly with his family, where Leland listened to my stories of the war in the Peninsula with flattering eagerness.
"I would agree with you," Grenville said. "The thought of Leland Derwent as a murderer stretches credulity. I saw Leland speak to Turner at length that evening, however, angrily, and he was quite troubled when Turner left him."
"I see." I didn't like that. "Very well, write his name, and we will ask him about this conversation with Mr. Turner. Mr. Bennington next, I think."
Grenville hesitated, looking annoyed, but he nodded and wrote again.
"You said it was accidental that he and Mrs. Bennington were there together," I said. "Were they invited separately, or together?"
"I do not know, but thinking it over, I wonder why Bennington came at all. He tends to sneer at social gatherings. Where we stand about and pretend interest in the cut of Mr. Teezle's coat and whether Miss Peazle's come-out will be a success, he says."
"And yet, he arrives at a grand ball and stays most of the night."
"Precisely," Grenville said. "I must wonder why."
"Very well, make a note of him. Any others?"
Grenville tapped his lips with the end of the pen. "It is difficult to say. Turner was not well liked. Snubbed people at Tattersall's and so forth. But he always paid his debts at White's when he lost and everywhere else for that matter, and always stopped short of mortally insulting a fellow so that he would not be called out. Not very brave, was our Mr. Turner."
I half listened to him, while I contemplated what I'd learned from Lady Aline, Louisa, and Lady Breckenridge. "What about Basil Stokes?" I asked. "Louisa and Lady Aline mentioned him, but I know nothing about him."
"Stokes?" Grenville raised his head in surprise. "Why would you suspect him?"
"Because Louisa said he stood very close to Colonel Brandon when they entered the house. I am looking at the possibility of someone stealing Brandon's knife-picking his pocket. Louisa said the closest persons to them in the crush were Mrs. Bennington and Basil Stokes."
Grenville shrugged and made a note. "Very well, then, Basil Stokes. We will easily find him at Tatt's or the boxing rooms-he is mad for sport."
"In all frankness, I cannot imagine why Mr. Stokes would murder Turner, but I hate to leave any stone unturned."
"If nothing else, we'll get good tips on what horse will win at Newmarket or which pugilist is likely to be a champion this year. Now, what about this French gentleman who assaulted you?"
I took a sip of brandy, letting the mellow taste fill my mouth. "I had not forgotten him. He had a rather military bearing, an officer, I would say, not one of the rank and file."
"He was not at the ball," Grenville said. "I would have noticed a lean man with close-cropped hair, a military bearing, and a thick French accent. I knew everyone there. There were no strangers."
I cradled my brandy goblet in my palms. "Lord Gillis likes military men, which was why he invited Colonel Brandon and the Duke of Wellington. Supposing this Frenchman had been a guest in the house but did not come down for the ball. Suppose he was someone Lord Gillis had invited to stay so they could discuss old military campaigns. The Frenchman spies Turner entering the house for the ball and kills him-for reasons of his own. The French officer took Imogene Harper's letters, but if he had not looked at them closely, he would not know what they were. Perhaps he thought they were something of his that Turner had taken."
"Or the Frenchman has nothing to do with Henry Turner at all. You are only guessing that he does."
"True. But he followed me, after I'd finished searching Turner's rooms, and he was looking for something. Pomeroy is now scouring the city for the Frenchman, and I hope to question him before long." I touched my face gingerly. "And complain of his very hard fists."
If anyone could find the man, Pomeroy could. He had a tenacity greater than the Russians who'd driven Bonaparte out of Moscow. Also, the Frenchman would not remain hidden for long. A French officer of such distinctive appearance walking about London would be noted and remembered.
There existed another reason a Frenchman might profess interest in me. My wife, Carlotta, had eloped with a French officer. I had never met the man or even seen him. Why Carlotta's lover would come to London and ransack my rooms, I had no idea, but I could not dismiss the fact that the connection might be along those lines.
I kept this to myself, however, as Grenville and I continued our discussion. Grenville brought up names and wrote them down or rejected those who'd left the ball long before Turner's death. Grenville's circle of acquaintance was vastly greater than mine, so I let him speculate on the characters of gentlemen of whom I knew nothing.
By the time we parted to seek our beds, we had come up with a lengthy list. But I focused on only a few of those as most likely: Imogene Harper, Mrs. Bennington, Mr. Bennington, Basil Stokes, my mysterious Frenchman, and possibly Leland Derwent.
I felt grateful that Grenville did not suggest listing Brandon, but I knew, glumly, that I could not rule him out altogether. He and Mrs. Harper still had the strongest motives thus far.
I went to sleep in the soft bed in my chamber and dreamed of Lady Breckenridge and her blue eyes.
The funeral for Henry Turner was held the next morning. The day dawned clear and fine, the air soft, the sky an arch of blue overhead. It was a day made for hacking across the downs on a fine horse, not for standing in a churchyard while a vicar droned the burial service.
"Man that is born of a woman hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery. He cometh up, and is cut down, like a flower; he fleeth as it were a shadow… "
I stood next to Grenville, both of us in somber gray. Nearer the tomb stood Mr. Turner and his wife, several young men I took to be Turner's friends, and a few older men, who must be Turner's father's cronies. People from the town of Epsom also attended, working people who had given Mr. and Mrs. Turner respectful words of condolence when they arrived.
Henry would be buried in a rather private corner of the churchyard where, Mr. Turner had informed me, his family had been buried for generations.
"I thought the next person there would be me," Mr. Turner said.
I'd had little comfort to give him. Grenville spoke the right phrases, but I, whose mentor was even now waiting in prison to be tried for the murder, could think of nothing to say.